


I did think, let's go about this slowly

by emjee (MerryHeart)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff, M/M, emotional honesty, the inherent romance of a ride home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/emjee
Summary: Joe and Nicky have worked together for three years, but Joe’s crush can be reliably dated back about six months. (Of course he has a crush, and of course he can admit that to himself, he’s an adult. Doesn’t mean he’s going to admit it to Booker.) They’d known of each other, of course, but it’s a relatively large library and material services folks are notorious for rarely emerging from their back room, where they hoard fresh barcode stickers and the laminator.In which Joe is a youth services librarian, Nicky repairs books, and their coworkers have their suspicions.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 191
Kudos: 907





	I did think, let's go about this slowly

**Author's Note:**

> How does that one meme go? "I am going to create an AU that is so self-indulgent..."
> 
> Title from Mary Oliver. I'll put the full poem at the end.

“If you keep teasing me about this you will no longer be welcome to our baked goods.”

“Bullshit,” Booker says through a mouthful of gingerbread cake. He and Joe are sitting in the youth services back office, glaring at each other across the desk that lives inexplicably in the center of the room and is used more as a repository for baked goods than as an actual desk. “You are not the arbiter of this cake.”

“Sure I am.”

“You didn’t make it.”

“But I am the head of youth services today.”

“Only because it’s Saturday, and that doesn’t make you in charge of the cake. Nile made it, she’s working today. You want me to ask her if I’m allowed to have some?”

“No, because then you’ll explain why I’m threatening you about it, even if she doesn’t ask.”

“I’m not gonna tell her your business like that.” Joe makes a skeptical sound and Booker holds up his hands. “I’m just saying that you’ve been spending a lot of time in material services. You eat your lunches there more than half the time, now.”

“Not today.”

“Yeah, because you’re trying to prove a point. It’s not working, though. I don’t know why you won’t admit you’ve got a crush.”

“Because Nicky’s a coworker. And also I don’t have a crush on him. He’s a very normal looking person.”

“The first thing is not an insurmountable obstacle, and the second thing doesn’t mean you aren’t into him. You know I have a friend who hooked up with him when we were college.”

Joe almost chokes on his cake. “Booker!”

“What? He said it was good, but Nicky kept his socks on the whole time.”

“Fuck, Booker, I didn’t need to know that.”

“But that was like, a decade ago, so maybe that’s changed. If you find out, please let me know.” He helps himself to another slice of cake. Joe’s too preoccupied to stop him.

* * *

Joe and Nicky have worked together for three years, but Joe’s crush can be reliably dated back about six months. (Of course he has a crush, and of course he can admit that to himself, he’s an adult. Doesn’t mean he’s going to admit it to Booker.) They’d known of each other, of course, but it’s a relatively large library and material services folks are notorious for rarely emerging from their back room, where they hoard fresh barcode stickers and the laminator. The most contact Joe usually had with them as the teen services librarian was picking up freshly processed or freshly repaired books from the cart that lived outside their office.

And then, last summer, in the middle of a massive weeding project, he’d ducked into material services to seek professional advice about books that were returned with sand embedded in unfortunate crevices. The only person in the office had been Nicky, squinting through reading glasses at some small detail of the book he was repairing. He was wearing a green cardigan even though it was June and the library’s air conditioning was temperamental at best. Joe was in a short-sleeved button-up patterned with starfish. He’d have worn shorts if he could have gotten away with it.

“I’ll be right with you,” Nicky said without looking up from the book.

“No rush,” said Joe, leaning against the wall just inside the door.

And Nicky hadn’t rushed. He’d worked for five more minutes in complete silence, attention never straying from whatever he was doing to the fairly battered cover of a picture book. Once he’d reached a stopping point—or maybe finished the thing, Joe didn’t know—he slid his glasses onto the top of his head and turned all that attention on Joe.

So, okay. That gaze was kind of intense.

“How can I help you?” Nicky asked, and Joe remembered the book in his hand.

“Ah, we’re working on a weeding project over in teen, and I’m coming across a fair number of books with sand in them. Some of them are probably from this summer’s beach trips, some of them are considerably older. Didn’t know what could be done.”

Nicky held out his hand and Joe handed him the hardcover. “If this is representative,” he said slowly, turning the book over in his hands. “I can try replacing the contact paper. Sometimes the sand gets under it and if you can get it away cleanly you can give the thing a good brush and put fresh contact paper on, sand-free. It’s a bigger problem if it’s between the pages.” He riffled through them. “This one I could probably fix. How many do you have?”

“Oh, maybe ten. More than ten, actually, but some of them are past repair even without the sand.”

“Bring them to me, I’ll take care of them for you.”

So Joe did, and Nicky had, with frankly surprising turnaround time. He’d dropped them off at the teen desk in person instead of leaving them on the cart outside his office, and he’d asked Joe how the summer reading program was going, and they’d talked for fifteen minutes while Nicky leaned against a book cart, arms folded, wrapped in that green cardigan that brought out his eyes. (That cardigan should have been ugly as sin; no one looked good in such a watery shade of green, and yet.)

If Joe started dropping by material services to ask about every small tear he came across, Nicky didn’t say anything about it, and if Nicky started making more in-person deliveries of freshly processed novels, Joe wasn’t about to comment.

And if Joe found himself cooking dinner one night and thinking about Nicky’s eyes and hands and boring haircut and sideburns that weirdly worked, well, that was nobody’s business but his own.

* * *

Joe passes the circulation desk on his way back to the teen area after lunch and is surprised to see Nicky behind one of the computers, scanning an impressive stack of Terry Pratchett novels for a patron with short blue hair. He stops short and ducks behind the circ desk, waiting until the patron departs before saying, “I didn’t think you worked on Saturdays.”

Nicky turns around and gives him a small smile. “I told Andy I’d be happy to fill in at circ if people couldn’t make their usual rotation,” he explains.

“That’s nice of you.”

Nicky shrugs. “It’s good to leave the back room sometimes.”

“Do you like it there?” Joe asks. He doesn’t really know why; the question sounds somehow both inane and too personal as he says it.

“Very much. The problems are tangible and you can see when they are fixed. I like the quiet, I like the people I share the space with. But a library is for its users, and it’s good to remind myself who I’m fixing things for.”

Joe can see a patron approaching the desk over Nicky’s shoulder, so he smiles and says something about going to relieve Nile from the teen desk. “See you around.” As soon as he’s turned away he rolls his eyes at himself. Of course he’ll see Nicky around, they fucking work together. Why is he like this.

“Someone’s running behind,” Nile says as he approaches the teen desk. “Not that I mind. It was pretty entertaining to watch you stop dead in your tracks when you noticed Nicky working circ.”

“I did not,” Joe insists.

“There is a direct line of sight from this desk to circulation, Yusuf, I don’t know who you think you’re kidding.”

“Remind me why I’ve so generously taken you under my wing?”

“Because Black and brown people have to stick together in this profession and my first week of work here you brought me coffee and we had an intense discussion about the massive flaws in the MLIS system.”

“Guess that’s a pretty good reason.”

“Guess so.”

Nile stands and Joe takes her seat. She doesn’t go far, though, just starts to organize one of the book carts alphabetically by author so it’ll be ready for the page who works Monday mornings.

“How’s the semester wrapping up?” Joe asks.

“Oh, you know, there’s always one group member who’s never prepared or never makes it to half the meetings. I despaired over one paper until about ten o’clock last night, when I had a minor revelation and was briefly convinced I could see the threads of time and space.”

“Sounds about right.”

“It’ll all be over in a week, which is wonderful and also sucks because I only have a week.”

“You’re so close. We’re gonna throw you the biggest grad party in May.”

“Can’t wait.” Nile smiles—she truly has one of the most gorgeous smiles Joe’s ever seen; he’s not being weird, it’s just an empirical fact—and then she glances towards the threshold of the teen room and her smile grows wider.

It’s Nicky, striding toward them and zipping up his coat. “I’m running up the street for coffee,” he says. “Can I bring you two anything?”

“You going to Skylark?” Nile asks. Nicky nods and she says, “Ooh, they do great peppermint mochas. You’re my hero if you bring me one.”

“Got it. Joe?”

“I’ve never been to Skylark. What’s good?”

“Joe likes his coffee sweet,” Nile offers.

“Rose cardamom latte?” Nicky suggests. “I can tell them to have a heavy hand with the syrup.”

“That sounds great,” Joe says. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He doesn’t fully smile, but cheerful lines appear around his eyes. They look more blue than green today. “Back in a bit.”

Once Nicky’s well out of sight and earshot, Joe turns to find Nile grinning at him. “Peppermint mocha?” he asks, in a very obvious effort to dislodge that grin.

“Wow, so you have _no_ leg to stand on when it comes to judging people’s coffee choices. And it’s gonna be the small joys that get me through this day.”

“Fair.”

* * *

Nile’s lending a hand down in children’s when Nicky returns, something Nicky must have somehow got wind of, because there’s no peppermint mocha in sight when he hands Joe a latte that is still piping hot.

“Ran into Nile on my way in,” he says, before Joe can ask. Their fingers brush as he hands the drink over. “How are you getting home?”

Joe doesn’t know what he was expecting Nicky to say, but that wasn’t it. “Um, I take the train.”

“Do you want a ride? It’s freezing out there and it’ll be dark by the time we leave.”

“Yeah, that would be great, actually. I get on at Highlands.”

Nicky shakes his head. “I meant a ride home.”

“Oh, it’s okay. You don’t have to drive me all the way home.”

“But I’m offering. Presumably you have to walk on the other side of the train ride, and it will still be dark and cold.”

Joe takes a sip of the latte, as a stalling tactic. And then he asks himself why he’s stalling. It’s a yes-or-no question, straight up and down. (“Straight,” his teenage patrons would say, gesturing to his general person. “That’s hilarious, Joe.”) “I would really appreciate that. Yeah, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Nicky says, just like he did when Joe gave him his coffee order. Joe thinks he might really mean it. “Meet me outside material services when you’re done?”

“Yeah.”

As Joe watches Nicky walk away ( _don’t look at his ass don’t look at his ass_ _you are a fucking professional don’t look at his ass_ ) he thinks he might start shooing patrons toward the circ desk five minutes earlier than usual at the end of the day, to ensure he’s turning the lights off right on the dot of five o’clock.

* * *

“Good day?” Nicky asks when he spots Joe walking down the hall toward material services.

“Pretty good, yeah.”

“I thought so. Your smile.”

Shit, had he been smiling? Just at the thought of a ride home with Nicky from material services? Who, according to Booker, not only fucked, but fucked with his socks on?

(He’s gotta stop thinking about the sock thing. He is deeply worried that he’s gonna step into the shower tonight and be unable to stop thinking about the sock thing.)

The evening is indeed dark and cold; the mile-long walk to the train would definitely have been unpleasant. Joe slides into the passenger seat and puts his messenger bag on the floor as Nicky starts the engine. “It’ll take a few moments for the heat,” he says apologetically. “Where do you live?”

“Oh, right.” This man offered Joe a ride home without actually knowing what he was getting himself into. Joe gives him the cross streets and he makes an amused sound.

“That’s not far from me at all.”

“I’m glad I’m not putting you too far out of your way,” Joe says.

“You wouldn’t be putting me out of my way even if you lived on the other side of the city.” They pull out of the parking lot and Joe very carefully keeps his gaze fixed forward, instead of on Nicky’s profile as illuminated by passing streetlights. “Did you have a program today?”

“Book club.”

“What did you read?”

“ _Darius the Great is Not Okay_. It’s about a teenager who goes to visit his grandparents in Iran for the first time. I mean, that’s the basic plot. It’s also about family and a lonely young man making friends and trying to understand how a culture you were sort of halfway raised with fits into your life. But it’s also very funny.”

“It sounds very good.”

“The kids liked it. I think this is one of the first weeks where they showed up for the book as much as the food. No shame in showing up mostly for the food, but it’s more fun with a good discussion.”

“I imagine.”

“Were you on circ the whole day?”

“Eh, back and forth between the desk and getting ahead on processing new acquisitions. You know our patrons, someone mentions a book on NPR and suddenly we have a hundred holds on it before we have copies in the system.”

“I know exactly what you mean. We just weeded half our copies of the latest John Green book, we ordered so many when it first came out.”

“Is that the one with the turtles?”

“No turtles are actually involved, but yeah, it’s in the title.”

“I think I processed every single copy you ordered with my own two hands.”

Joe is trying not to think about Nicky’s hands.

They keep chatting about work until they get closer to Joe’s cross streets and he talks Nicky through the series of one-way streets they have to turn down to get to Joe’s apartment.

“This is me,” he says, “on the left, number twenty-four.”

The car comes to a stop and, before Joe can open the door and launch himself onto the pavement, Nicky turns and looks him full in the face and says, “I am always happy to give you a ride, Joe. It’s not a pleasant time of year to walk to and from the train.”

“Yeah,” Joe says. “Thanks, that’s really kind of you.”

“I’m serious,” Nicky says, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket. “Do you mind if we swap numbers?”

“No!” It comes out a little too enthusiastic, or maybe a little too surprised. Joe wants to bury his face in his hands. One pair of pretty eyes and one pair of beautiful hands and a huge dose of competence and consideration and he is making a fool of himself like he’s in college again.

They exchange phone numbers and Joe finally manages to get the door open. “Thanks again,” he says. “Have a good evening.”

“You too,” says Nicky, smiling a small smile.

Joe crosses the street and unlocks his door as fast as he can, glancing back over his shoulder before he lets it close behind him. Nicky’s car is still there. Joe gives a small wave and Nicky waves back before pulling away from the curb. He was waiting, Joe realizes, to make sure he got in alright.

* * *

Joe doesn’t think about the sock thing in the shower, because socks and showers are a weird combination, even when one of those things is purely imaginary. He does think about Nicky’s shoulders, and how easy he is to talk to, and how good he is at his job. Doesn’t even jerk off about it, he just thinks. He ends up staying in the shower twice as long as he meant to, lost in a daydream.

When he finally talks himself into turning off the water (it’s so _warm_ and his apartment isn’t that well insulated), he checks his phone and finds a text from Nicky. Just seeing the man’s name on his phone screen makes his face heat.

 **Nicky  
** Are you working Monday?

I am

(Joe suddenly remembers why he is an indifferent texter: he spends far too long debating which punctuation mark, if any, should accompany his answer. Is this what humans have come to?)

 **Nicky  
** Would you like me to pick you up, and would you like to leave early enough to get coffee?

Oh God, Joe thinks. The classic queer is-this-just-coffee-or-is-this-actually-a-date situation. _Emphatically just coffee_ , he thinks. _Coworkers. You are coworkers_. _And he hasn’t given you the slightest indication of anything_.

Yes to both, please.

 **Nicky  
** Is 8:00 too early? Shall we go to Skylark, since you haven’t been?

Not too early, and yes, sounds good.

* * *

Skylark is small—it only has four tables—and it’s absolutely full of plants. Joe does not know enough about houseplants to be able to identify anything that isn’t a succulent (and even then, he can’t get more specific), but it’s the dead of winter and there’s greenery cascading down from shelves built into the wall next to where he and Nicky are sitting, and he loves it.

“Libby takes care of them,” Nicky explains when Joe brings it up. Libby is the barista who always opens, the one currently making their coffee (macchiato for Nicky, peppermint mocha for Joe. No, he will not be telling Nile about this.). Nicky knows an impressive amount about several of the baristas; Joe mentions this and asks Nicky if he comes here often. “Almost every day,” he answers. “I have two roommates and none of us like sharing the kitchen, so I come here for breakfast. But I also just have one of those faces that makes people tell me things.”

Yeah, Joe thinks. He understands that.

They drink their coffee and eat their pastries and just…talk. About hobbies outside of work, about the music that’s playing, about how they ended up at this particular library.

“I know you’ve been here longer than me,” Joe says. “How long?”

“Since college,” Nicky says. “I moved here for undergrad, didn’t fully expect to stay. I have family in Italy, thought I might live there for a few years, but by that point I’d already been working in material services for four years and I loved the work and there was a fortunate job opening.”

“Did you just tack your master’s on to the end of undergrad?”

“I don’t have one,” he says, finishing his macchiato. “And I don’t expect I’ll get one, since I’ve worked there twelve years and no one’s mentioned it.”

His voice has gone a little steely, like he expects some kind of resistance or judgement. Joe tries not to take it personally.

“That’s the way it should go, if you ask me,” Joe says. “The master’s requirement is a horrible bit of gatekeeping, and going into debt over a program that can’t decide what it wants to be is bullshit. It keeps good people out of the profession, people we need. It could easily be an undergraduate degree.”

“Or an apprenticeship.”

“Precisely. Nile and I have had basically this exact conversation, but over much shittier coffee.”

“Not the garbage they brew in the staff lounge,” Nicky says, his face comically straight.

“The very same.”

And they’re smiling at each other across the small table (so small, in fact, that their knees are touching, a fact Joe is pretending he doesn’t notice while he in fact notices it constantly), and the coffee is good, and there are green plants in the middle of winter, and Monday morning is slightly less terrible.

* * *

It goes on like this for a couple of weeks. They get to know each other’s work schedules so well they practically memorize them. Nicky works fairly standard nine-to-five on weekdays, but if he picks up a Saturday he’ll take the next Friday as comp time. He never works Sundays; Joe doesn’t work Friday afternoons. He’s a bit more irregular in general, because he has programming to factor in; he works one-to-nine shifts almost as often as nine-to-fives. Joe can usually find a ride to the train station when he works late, but one night in January snow starts coming down fast and thick at six and shows no signs of stopping at eight, and even if he can find a ride to the train, the fifteen minute walk on the other end of the ride, up and down snow-covered hills, is almost unfathomable given how tired he is.

He can’t believe he’s about to do this.

Hi Nicky, I’m so sorry to ask this, and of course you can say no  
But is it possible you could come get me at 9:00?  
The weather’s looking really bad  
If you can’t it’s fine, truly, but. Thought I’d ask.

His phone pings less than a minute later.

 **Nicky  
** Of course I can come get you, and I’m happy to do it  
Thank you for asking me

Joe frowns down at his phone. Nicky’s thanking _him_? You know what, he thinks, he’ll wonder about that later. Right now he’s considering all the poetry he’s going to write for the man as a token of his appreciation. (He’s not serious about the poetry. Probably.)

Nicky’s pulled right up to the curb outside the back door, and Joe still brushes a significant amount of snow off his hat before getting into the car.

“I really am glad you asked me to come,” Nicky says, while Joe’s still getting settled. “I was worried about you walking from the train. I don’t mean to sound overbearing…”

“You don’t,” Joe assures him. “It’s sweet.”

Something in the way Nicky’s looking at him changes. He shouldn’t have said sweet, he thinks. Kind, maybe, or thoughtful.

Nicky pulls out of the parking lot. The car’s already warm.

It’s a slower ride than usual, with the snow falling fast and thick. “I should have offered,” Nicky says, after a stretch of silence. “It’s not like this is a freak storm.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joe replies, “Really. You came and got me anyway.”

They’re quiet for the rest of the ride, so Nicky can concentrate on navigating snowy streets. He pulls into the usual spot across from Joe’s apartment and throws the car in park.

“Thanks again,” Joe says after a moment. He makes no move to get out of the car.

“My pleasure.”

“You say that a lot,” Joe says, voice soft.

Nicky gives a little shrug. “It’s true.”

“Do you say it to everyone?”

“No.”

They sit like that for a few moments, just looking at each other, heat going full blast, snow falling around them. Joe feels something shift, just slightly, and makes a decision.

“Nicky, I’m going to say something, and if it’s not something you want to hear I will stop immediately and never mention it again and we can forget this ever happened, I swear.” He gives Nicky a moment to stop him before he goes any further, because it’s pretty easy to guess where this is going with a preface like that. But Nicky doesn’t say anything, doesn’t frown or tell Joe to get out of his car, just nods and waits. “I like you. A lot.” He hears Nicky exhale, watches a smile spread across his face, and suddenly everything is easier. “And if you ever, wanted to go on a date, I don’t know—”

“I would love to,” Nicky cuts in. “I would like that very much.”

It’s Joe’s turn to exhale, feeling like he’s just put down something heavy. “Okay. Okay, that’s great, that’s…” He’s smiling too hard to keep talking. “I should probably—” He reaches for his bag.

“Yeah,” Nicky says, turning off the engine. Joe gives him an inquiring look. “This is the closest parking I’m going to be able to find,” he explains. “I’m just a couple streets over.”

“Did you give up a street spot to come get me?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Nicky!”

“What? I found another spot, didn’t I?”

He really is too kind, Joe thinks. And then he does something without thinking about it at all. “Do you want to stay at mine?” he says, gesturing vaguely toward his front door, as if further explanation were needed. “I mean—sorry, I didn’t mean to go from asking you on a date to asking you to come over, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just that’s a miserable walk home, and…God, Nicky, you’ve done so many lovely things for me. Let me do something for you? Oh, that sounds—I didn’t mean it to sound like—”

“Joe.” It’s far from the first time Nicky’s said his name, but, oh. “It’s a very kind offer, and I will take you up on it.”

Joe practically trips over his own feet getting out of the car. Nicky takes a moment to text his roommates so they don’t worry.

And then Joe’s leading a guy up to his apartment, something he hasn’t done in a while.

“It’s not much,” he says as he and Nicky shed coats and scarves and hats, “but it’s mine.” It really isn’t much, in terms of square footage, but a studio is what he can afford without roommates, and living alone was on the top of his priority list after he finished grad school. He loves his job, loves working with people all day, but needs to be alone at the end of it. Usually. Right now he’s very glad he’s not alone.

They hang their snowy outer layers on the hooks by the door and leave their shoes beneath them, and then Nicky says, “Joe.”

His name again, so simple, different now and not different at all. “Yes?”

“May I kiss you?”

“Please,” he says, and he’s already reaching for Nicky.

They’re almost of a height. Joe slides his hands over Nicky’s shoulders—they’re truly magnificent shoulders, he hopes the future will be full of him holding on to these shoulders—and Nicky rests one hand at Joe’s waist and the other against his face. His hand is cold. Joe doesn’t care. Nicky bumps their noses together (also cold) and closes that last little bit of distance, and then Joe doesn’t feel cold at all.

It’s soft, and gentle, and perfect. There’s a part of Joe that absolutely cannot wait to devour this man, but that’s for later. He wouldn’t have this moment be anything other than what it is.

Their lips meet again and again. Joe wraps his arms fully around Nicky’s neck, and Nicky winds his arm around Joe’s waist. They draw each other in until they’re fully pressed together, kissing more firmly now, mouths still closed.

Nicky’s the first one to pull back, just slightly. “Good?”

Is he asking how Joe is? What Joe thinks of the kiss? Doesn’t matter what the question is; answer’s the same all around. “Incredible.”

“We don’t have to stop,” Nicky says, “but I—I didn’t know, how fast you want, you know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll talk, we’ll figure it all out. But right now I—long day, you know?”

“Of course. I don’t want to disrupt your routine.”

“Hush,” Joe says, “you’re a guest, and a very welcome one. Can I get you anything?”

“Do you have coffee?”

“I do, but I don’t have decaf.”

“Why would I want decaf.”

“Ah,” Joe says, leading Nicky to the tiny kitchen. “Caffeine immunity?”

“It doesn’t keep me from sleeping, if that’s what you mean.”

“It stopped affecting me almost entirely in grad school.” He puts the kettle on and starts weighing beans. “What did it for you?”

“Being Italian.”

Joe snorts and pours the beans into the grinder. “Fair.” He’s sorely tempted to suggest they make out again while they wait for the coffee to brew, but he really has no idea what Nicky’s expecting from this. Joe’s used to pelting into things headlong, but lately he’s been wondering if he might like to do something different, the next time round. And apparently “the next time round” means “now.”

“Can I ask you something?” Nicky says.

“Of course. Anything.”

“How long?”

“Ah.” Joe scrubs his hand across the back of his neck. “Um, about six months.”

Nicky huffs a small laugh, smiles, and leans against the kitchen counter. “Was there a moment? Do you remember?”

“Yes.” There’s a mischievous gleam in Nicky’s eye. “Why?”

“I want to see if we have the same moment.”

“When you dropped off those books over the summer, the ones you got the sand out of, and you stayed to talk. You were wearing a green cardigan even though it was disgustingly humid, and it looked great on you even though it’s a shade of green that shouldn’t look good on anyone.”

“Hmm.” He’s smirking in a way that’s kind of hot and kind of makes Joe want to tackle him and kiss the smirk off his face.

“Come on, turnabout’s fair play.” The timer goes off for the coffee and Joe splits the batch between two mugs.

“Well of course when you started at the library I noticed how handsome you were.” Joe rolls his eyes and hands Nicky a mug. “What? With your gorgeous curls and your beautiful eyes, it’s impossible to miss. But I remember the day you stopped by the back office to ask about those books, with the sand, and when I said I would be with you in a moment you waited so patiently, you didn’t rush me, and you weren’t annoyed when I was finally done. And I’ve seen you around, doing programming, helping patrons. Those teenagers love you, and it’s so clear that you love them. And then I saw you wearing your baseball cap backwards on the way in from the parking lot one morning, and I thought God, he is wearing a baseball cap backwards and I’m still into him. Guess it’s bad.”

Maybe it’s because he’s tired, maybe it’s because this day is going so differently from what he expected when he woke up this morning, but Joe starts laughing and can’t stop.

“I think,” Nicky continues, starting to giggle himself, “I think it was the tuft of hair, out the front,” he gestures to his own forehead, “that did it. It was so cute, I could hardly stand it.”

“Cute?” Joe manages, still laughing.

“Cute,” Nicky insists. “You are, you know. And very good at your job, and kind, and funny, and…” 

“And what?” Joe presses.

Nicky’s eyes flit up and down his body. “And very attractive.”

They just stand there, coffee in hand, staring at each other with hungry eyes, unabashed and unashamed. God, Joe thinks, it feels so good to be wanted.

“I’m glad you said something,” Nicky continues.

“Me too.”

* * *

Joe makes up the couch while Nicky’s in the shower, and tries not to openly stare when Nicky steps out of the bathroom wearing a pair of Joe’s sweatpants and a t-shirt with a book cart on it that says “This is how we roll”. Joe then proceeds to take the fastest shower of his life, and emerges to find Nicky sitting on the couch with a blanket wrapped completely around himself. He looks a bit like a burrito. It might be the best thing Joe’s ever seen.

“I don’t want sound like an ungrateful guest,” Nicky says, “but your apartment is…not the warmest.”

Joe gives a long-suffering sigh. “Not ungrateful in the least. The insulation is shit and I can’t control my own heat. Down with landlords.” Nicky makes a gesture that’s half salute, half cheers-I’ll-drink-to-that. “Do you want a sweatshirt?”

“That would be good, thank you.” Joe locates a hoodie and hands it over; Nicky practically dives into it headfirst and immediately pulls the hood up.

“Better?”

Nicky nods, tucking his hands under his arms. The sleeves on that hoodies have always been slightly too long on Joe, and they’re long on Nicky as well, giving him whatever the sweatshirt equivalent of sweater paws is. And then Joe can’t help it, he’s sitting next to Nicky on the couch, and not a respectable distance away, but right next to him, hips touching. “I want to kiss you again,” he murmurs. “May I?”

Nicky leans forward by way of answer, and their mouths meet. It starts just as softly as before, but something about it’s more languid, less sweet. Joe can easily see this kiss ending with one of them flat on their back. He feels Nicky’s lips part between his own and he sighs a little, and sucks Nicky’s lower lip between his teeth, just to see what will happen.

Nicky groans and reaches to cup the back of Joe’s neck with one of his extremely capable hands. (It’s possible Joe’s thought about these hands a lot in the past few months. That’s Joe’s business.)

But then Nicky’s pulling back, face flushed, and he says, “Maybe we should have that talk?”

“Yeah,” Joe breathes. “Yes, yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“Because I don’t want to press you.”

“You’re not.”

“Good. Okay.”

“I, ah. Let me think how to explain this.” He looks up at the ceiling, and only looks back at Nicky once he’s ready to speak. “You know that feeling, when you really like someone and something starts happening between you—”

“Yes,” Nicky breathes, and they share a nervous-sounding laugh.

“And it feels a little like you’re on drugs, right? Like that perfect level of buzz. I am prone to really leaning in to that. And it’s not like I regret it, that that’s how I am, but I…I’ve been thinking that maybe I shouldn’t get so swept away with it.”

“How do you get swept away?”

Joe studies Nicky’s face before he answers. Nicky doesn’t look hurt, or upset, just curious. “Well, I—bed, for one thing.”

“You kiss on the first date.”

“Often more than.”

“You kiss before the first date too.” Nicky reaches for Joe’s hands and folds them between his own. Joe feels heat unspooling low in his stomach. How is Nicky holding his hands the hottest thing that’s happened tonight?

“It’s different with you, I already know you. And I like you, so much. When I like someone, I don’t hold back.”

“I like that,” Nicky assures him. “For what it’s worth, I’m the same. About bed. But if you want to go slow, of course we go slow. No explanations needed.” Joe exhales and feels his shoulders relax. “And I know there’s the fact that we work together.”

“Yes,” Joe agrees, glad that Nicky brought it up first. “And of course I feel optimistic about this—”

“But we both love our jobs so much—”

“Exactly. So. Maybe we just.”

“Don’t fall into bed quite yet?”

“Yeah.”

Nicky leans forward and bumps his forehead against Joe’s. Joe thinks Nicky might go in for another kiss, but he doesn’t. Instead he smiles, and says, “Okay.”

And then he shivers.

Joe takes a long, slow, steadying breath. “I’m aware of how this is going to sound after the conversation we literally just had, but the thought of you shivering on this couch all night makes me sad both as a host and as someone who is romantically interested in you, so. Do you want to…sleep with me?”

Nicky snorts, a sound that makes Joe’s heart do a confused little flip. On the one hand, this is genuine laughter, Joe recognizes it from the handful of times he’s made Nicky laugh at work. (He treasures each and every one of those memories; Nicky is far from bad-tempered, but he doesn’t laugh at just anything, and he definitely doesn’t laugh just to be polite.) On the other hand, they literally just agreed they shouldn’t fall into bed right away.

“Sorry,” Nicky says, “not laughing at you, it’s just—you’re also offended as a host, that’s amusing to me.”

“Being too cold to sleep comfortably isn’t hospitable! Do you know what my mother would say if she knew I invited you home and then left you to freeze?”

“What would she say?”

“Something along the lines of ‘I know your father and I taught you better manners than that.’”

“And her solution would involve me sharing your bed?”

“Her solution would involve more blankets than I currently own, and probably a heating pad. I do have a heating pad, but I don’t remember where it is.”

“So you’re offering yourself as a substitute.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“A superior substitute, I think.” And he does lean in for a kiss now, a quick one, over almost before Joe knows it’s happening. “I would much rather sleep with you in your warm bed.”

The bed in question is partitioned off from the rest of the studio by bookshelves, which Nicky peruses while Joe turns back the bedspread.

“Fewer than I might have expected,” Nicky says.

“I only own my favorites. Why spend money when you can get first dibs at work, you know how it is.”

“I do. The number of times I’ve put a freshly processed book on the cart only to go swipe it from the new release shelf an hour later…” He shakes his head as he climbs into bed next to Joe. “Too many to count.”

Joe flicks off the bedside lamp and they arrange themselves under the covers in the resulting semi-darkness. Enough ambient light from the street makes its way through the curtains that they can see each other’s faces in the dimness.

“Hey,” Joe says, voice hushed. “I’m glad this is how today went.”

“Me too.” Nicky smiles a true, full smile; it feels luminous, even in the dark. “And I hope you still like me after what I’m about to do.”

Joe has a split second of panic that is immediately relieved when Nicky sticks his feet between Joe’s calves, and then the relief is replaced by indignation, because Nicky’s feet are _freezing_.

“Fuck! Nicky!”

“I’m sorry,” Nicky offers, but there’s no real contrition in it, and anyway they’re both already starting to laugh. “You’re so warm.”

“Not all of me,” Joe says, and retaliates by rearranging their legs so that his feet are now wedged between Nicky’s legs.

“Mother of God, how can I feel that through these sweatpants?”

“It won’t last long,” Joe assures him. “I bet we’ll wake up in the morning with half the blankets on the floor.”

“Not likely,” Nicky says, burrowing deeper into the pillow. “This is the best I’ve felt all winter.”

Joe is long past the days of sharing twin-sized beds with other people; he’s grown now, with a full-sized mattress to prove it, but neither he nor Nicky are small men, and they really can’t get into comfortable sleeping positions without touching each other. Joe doesn’t mind in the least, but not everyone is as clingy a sleeper as he is.

He quickly finds out that he might have met in match in Nicky diGenova. They twine their legs together and indulge in a few more slow, gentle kisses, and Nicky pulls Joe’s arm across his waist and snuggles in closer. It’s like they’re trying to disappear into each other, and Joe doesn’t think it’s just because of the cold.

They fall asleep spooning, Joe pressing his nose against the short hair at the nape of Nicky’s neck. He gets the best sleep he’s gotten in a long time.

* * *

That sleep is rudely interrupted by the sound of Joe’s phone ringing at 5:30 in the morning. Joe extricates himself from Nicky, groans, and rolls over to see Andy’s name on the caller ID.

“Hey, boss.” Andy is neither the library director nor Joe’s supervisor, but she is the head of material services, which makes her de-facto the head of circulation and general patron services, so. Yeah. She’s the boss.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“Is it, if you’re calling me this early?” Next to him, Nicky is sitting up against the headboard, wide awake.

“It’s about to be. We’re closed for the day.”

“Shit. Did the water main break again?”

“What? No. The weather, Yusuf. Did you somehow miss the giant snowstorm?”

The honest answer is “no, but also yes,” because Joe hasn’t given a single thought to anything or anyone outside his apartment since he stepped through the door with Nicky last night.

“Oh. But we haven’t closed for weather in—I don’t think we’ve closed for weather since I started.”

“First time for everything.”

“You and Quỳnh are gonna go on some kind of crazy snow hike, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t worry, we’ll enjoy the outdoors on your behalf. Go back to sleep and have a nice day off.”

“Thanks, boss. My best to Quỳnh.”

He hangs up and puts the phone back on the nightstand, face down. “Looks like we have the day—” he starts to say, but is interrupted by an unfamiliar ringtone. Nicky swears and tumbles out of bed, striding toward the door and digging his phone out of his coat pocket.

“Morning, boss. Yeah, crazy weather we’re having.”

Joe is still half asleep, honestly, but he’s awake enough to know that the sight of Nicky in his apartment, barefoot and sleepy, is a sight he wants to become very, very used to. Nicky catches his eye while Andy talks, and Joe winks.

Nicky shoves the phone back into his coat pocket as soon as he hangs up and all but dives back into bed, feet immediately seeking the warmth of Joe’s body.

“You couldn’t have been out of bed for more than three minutes,” Joe complains.

Nicky doesn’t deign that with a response, just snuggles closer and pulls gently at Joe’s clothes until Joe is fully burrowed under the blankets again. “You were saying? We have the day?”

“To ourselves, I was going to say. If you wanted to stay.”

“Mmm, I do,” Nicky says, eyes drifting closed. “I also want to go back to sleep.”

“Right behind you,” Joe agrees, and they slip away together.

* * *

When Joe wakes up the in the morning (the proper morning, not whatever the fuck 5:30 is) he finds himself staring right into Nicky’s eyes.

“Good morning,” Nicky murmurs. “Do you know you are very lovely when you sleep?”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said so before.”

“Then people have been holding out on you. You always seem to be moving when I see you at work. It’s nice to see you look peaceful.” He traces a fingertip along the curve of Joe’s cheek, and Joe melts. “Also, your eyelashes are criminally beautiful.”

Joe opens his mouth, then closes it again. Nicky makes an inquiring noise. “I, ah—nothing I want to say is going to convince either of us that I’m taking this slow, like we talked about last night.”

“Okay.” There’s something about Nicky’s face that’s so honest. Joe wants to cover it in kisses. “Do you want to say any of those things anyway?”

Joe turns his head to bury his face in a pillow for a few moment before resurfacing to say, “I can’t believe I said we shouldn’t have sex right away and then less than twenty-four hours later we get a surprise day off that in any other reality could be spent in a cozy sex haze.”

Nicky tips his head back and laughs. “Would it comfort you to know I had the same thought?”

“It does, somewhat.”

“Do you want to change your mind?”

“What?”

“About the sex. I truly mean no pressure, please be honest with me, but if you want to change your mind, you know that’s okay.”

Joe props himself up on one elbow. “I…hm.”

“Let me put it this way: if you’re worrying you’ll scare me off, don’t. Because I like you, Joe. I like you so much I hardly know what to do, and I’m beside myself that I’m here beside you right now.”

It’s like there was a script running in the background of Joe’s mind, an anxious sort of thing that said _Don’t be too earnest, don’t come on too strong, don’t be too much too fast_ , and now that Nicky’s spoken up, it’s stopped running. Joe didn’t notice it was there until it wasn’t.

“You know how something new is,” Joe starts. “All of this potential, but also so much risk. You’re making yourself vulnerable to a new person and you’re constantly watching yourself do it.”

“I know.” Nicky is lying on his back, looking up at Joe. His hair is sticking up in a number of different directions. It’s ridiculously endearing. “But I personally do not think the success of this is going to be made or broken by how much we hold ourselves back from each other at the outset.” He’s quiet for a moment, but Joe gets the sense that he’s not quite done. “Of course you’re don’t have to answer this but…I hope no one has told you in the past that you’re ‘too much’.”

Not in so many words, and yet. “It never feels good to know that the person you’re interested in isn’t as interested in you as you are in them.”

“No,” Nicky sighs. “It doesn’t.”

“But that’s also not a problem I feel like we’re currently having?”

“Agreed.”

Joe drops back down onto the pillow and pulls Nicky close to him. “So maybe for today we just—say everything.”

“I like that plan.”

“And if that feels right we just keep doing it.”

“Yes.”

They trade slow, lazy kisses in the morning light for a few moments, and then Joe says, “Also, and tell me what you think about this, it feels ungrateful to be gifted a snow day by the universe and then _not_ use it at least in part for sex.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Nicky says, and pulls Joe back in for a kiss that is much less slow and lazy.

* * *

“Wow,” Booker says when Joe strolls into work on Monday. “That surprise three-day weekend has you looking better than you’ve looked in weeks.”

“Thanks, Book. Called any kettles black recently?”

“I’m serious.”

Joe rolls his eyes and makes his way through the atrium toward the teen room, Booker at his heels.

“Be honest,” Booker says, once they’re out of the atrium, where sound carries up three floors, “did you spend the weekend in some kind of sex cocoon?”

Someone from circ has left the paging list on Joe’s desk; he snatches it up and makes a point of perusing it so he doesn’t have to at Booker’s face.

“If I tell you,” Joe says, eyes glued to the clipboard he’s holding, “will you promise not to ask any further questions.”

“No.”

“Then I won’t be telling you.”

“But you already have. If you hadn’t spent the weekend in a sex cocoon, you would have said so.”

“Would I? Maybe I’m playing the long game. I’m very clever.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Joe sees Nicky appear at the door of the teen room, register Booker’s presence, and turn right back around. Booker looks over his shoulder just in time to catch a flash of green cardigan that can’t belong to anyone else.

He turns back to Joe with a grin. “Not that clever.”

* * *

“Okay,” Joe says as he closes the passenger door of Nicky’s car. “Probably we should have talked about work.”

“Yes. It briefly crossed my mind last night, but then you kissed me and did that thing with your tongue, and…”

“Yeah.” They both stare out of the windshield for a few moments, lost in the memory. “So. On the one hand, we probably have to say something to HR? But on the other hand—and I’m not, you know, _worried_ , but you have you ever started dating someone and told all of your friends and then six weeks later—”

“Yep. I also am not worried, but. I know exactly what you mean.”

“So what do you think? Three months?”

“That sounds alright. We can keep it under wraps at work for three months. I’m not on social media.”

“I have Twitter, but it’s strictly for professional reasons.” Nicky makes a noise that sounds like the audible representation of a wince. “Yeah, I log on, follow conference hashtags, and log right back off.”

“Family?”

“Oh God, if I tell my family I’m dating someone I feel really good about they will immediately insist that you come around for dinner. My relatives on other continents will know about it before you’ve taken your coat off.”

“Same with mine.”

“Alright, so, just between the two of us? For three months?”

“Yes.” Nicky glances over and Joe meets his gaze for the briefest of seconds before he turns back to watch the road. It makes him feel warm and fizzy.

When Nicky parks the car on Joe’s street, they both release their seatbelts and reach for each other, meeting in the middle, mouths open, hands cradling faces.

“I must confess,” Nicky says after a while, when they’re both breathing hard, “I’m kind of looking forward to us having each other all to ourselves for a bit. It’s like…there’s less pressure?”

Joe nods, his attention still half-focused on Nicky’s lower lip and how good it feels between his teeth. “It’s nice to not have to manage other people’s expectations. And in three months I bet we won’t be able to shut up about each other to our friends.”

“If only there was a way to tell them to prepare themselves without spoiling the whole thing.”

Joe chuckles and leans in for another kiss.

* * *

So. The thing about having a new paramour when you have to keep that fact under wraps and work together at the same time. The thing is. The thing.

Joe is trying to figure out what the thing is, but he’s at an inter-department meeting in the conference room on the third floor and he keeps getting distracted by Nicky’s face.

Nicky isn’t even _looking_ at him; he’s doing a very convincing job of listening to Quỳnh’s report on behalf of the reference department. Maybe he actually _is_ listening. If he is, he’s a stronger man than Joe. It’s not that Quỳnh’s report is boring or that she doesn’t have interesting updates, it’s that, well.

It’s that Joe knows what Nicky looks like naked, knows the noises he makes when Joe pulls his hair, knows what his hair looks like after Joe’s fingers have had their way with it, knows which spots on Nicky’s body to kiss to make him absolutely melt. And what’s more, Nicky knows all of those things about Joe. They’ve been vulnerable together, and the lack of plummeting dread in the pit of Joe’s stomach is perhaps the strongest indication so far that this could really go somewhere.

Joe also wants to jump Nicky a solid fifty percent of the time they are work, which is a problem for a number of reasons.

The first reason is that, despite what one might think thanks to popular culture, libraries are deeply unsexy places. Joe will admit there is a certain eroticism to the stacks of a university library after dark, but under no circumstances should that eroticism be given in to, for the sake of the university librarians who definitely aren’t being paid enough. There’s no eroticism to public libraries at all. Sure, the architecture of some of them is very sexy, but that’s as far as it goes. There’s nowhere for him and Nicky to do so much as make out. Every available closet is some department’s designated cry closet, so it’s highly possible they’d open the door on a colleague just trying to have a good frustrated sob after a patron was bitchy to them. All of the study rooms have windows in the doors, which might not stop some of the teenagers he’s had to have words with, but definitely stops Joe. The bathrooms are right fucking out.

The second reason this is a problem is that it’s making it hard for Joe to keep things under wraps. He still eats half his lunches in material services because it’s quiet and Nicky’s there, but their conversation has turned into an obstacle course of veiled suggestion and double entendres, and nine times out of ten Joe wants to climb onto Nicky’s lap before his lunch hour ends. He doesn’t, of course, but he admits they probably aren’t as subtle as they think they are. Booker’s already suspicious, and Nile, who sees the two of them together more than anyone, likely isn’t far behind.

Nicky glances over at Joe as Quỳnh finishes her update. They make brief eye contact before Joe looks away.

He spends the entire ride home with his hand resting on the inside of Nicky’s thigh.

They’re kissing furiously before they’re halfway through the door, shedding shoes and coats and (because what’s the point in wasting time) clothes as they stumble toward bed.

“I saw you working on your new display today,” Nicky manages between kisses. “You were standing on a stool sticking the letters to the wall. You ass looked so good I think I stopped dead in my tracks.”

Joe pulls Nicky’s undershirt over his head and gathers him into his arms. “I love the feeling of your skin against mine, touch me, Nicky, touch me everywhere—”

“Let me suck you, please, I’ve wanted to all day, you have no idea—”

“I do,” Joe assures him. “I do, and if it weren’t for the fact that I came so close to putting up a sign that says ‘no blowjobs in the library’ after a particularly weird week last year, I would have suggested you meet me in the second floor storage closet for just that purpose.”

“What if someone in reference had needed it?”

“We wouldn’t have been in there very long.”

Nicky crowds Joe against the bed and goes to his knees once Joe is sitting, and this is something else Joe knows now: what Nicky looks like with his mouth stretched around Joe’s cock.

It’s inconvenient knowledge to have during a staff meeting. Joe wouldn’t trade it for the world.

It won’t be like this forever, he keeps telling himself. The honeymoon phase will wear off eventually, and the earlier he accepts that the less he’ll worry about it. But there’s also no sign that either of them are regretting this, or that there’s an imbalance of feeling. They’ve slotted into each other’s lives so beautifully—indeed, it feels like the only thing that’s really changed since the summer is how often Nicky sleeps at Joe’s (a lot) and how much sex they have (also a lot).

“I have to ask you a question,” Joe says, after they’ve worn each other out and are lying naked under the blankets, Joe’s head resting on Nicky’s chest. “And it’s going to be very weird, but I’ve waited this long and I can’t wait any longer.” He thinks he hears Nicky’s heartbeat speed up.

“Okay.”

“Booker mentioned once that you went to undergrad together.”

“Together is a stretch, we weren’t in the same program, but we did know people in common.”

“Well, one of the people you knew in common is a guy you, um, hooked up with? Who apparently told Booker that you were great, but that you kept your socks on. This seems to have really stuck in his mind. But you’ve never done that with me, so, I don’t know, was that a weird one-time thing, have you undergone some character development since college?” Now he can feel Nicky shaking with laughter.

“God, I hope so. But that, it’s more about, um—so, we usually fuck in bed? And I hate the way socks feel in bed.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t explain college.”

Nicky sighs. “If I’m guessing right about which encounter this was, it was winter, we were not in bed, and there were not a lot of clothes involved. Keeping your socks on helps you stay warm, it’s easier to orgasm when you’re warm, and I cannot believe this has come back to haunt me a decade later.”

“Sorry.” Joe presses a kiss to Nicky’s chest. “But I had to know. Shouldn’t come up again.”

“How did it even come up in the first place?”

“Booker’s had his suspicions about my feelings for you for…a while. Since before we actually started…”

“Eyefucking at work?”

“I think we might have been eyefucking before we had any conversations about it.”

“Oh. Yes, that’s likely.”

Joe shifts so that he’s lying next to Nicky and pulls him close for a series of long, slow kisses.

“Are people meant to be this happy?” Nicky murmurs.

“That sounds like the Catholicism talking.”

“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Sometimes it makes me sound like a Jane Austen character.”

“I think we’re meant to be this happy. If we’re not, too bad, I’m going to be happy anyway. You astonish me, Nicky. The depths of your kindness, the way you take care of people, and on top of that, you want me?”

“How could I not? How could anyone look at you, dedicated and compassionate and full of warm fellow-feeling, and not think, what I would not give to be loved by that man?”

“I do love you. So much it should frighten me a little, probably, but it doesn’t.”

“It doesn’t frighten me either, my love for you.” 

“We really are two insufferably lucky bastards, aren’t we?”

“I think so.”

They trade a few more kisses before leaving the warmth of the blankets for a necessary shower. Once they’re back in bed for the night, Joe, half asleep, mumbles, “You know I once saw the youth services staff nearly come to blows during a discussion of which Austen novel is the best.”

“That’s a question that has a right answer.”

“It absolutely does.”

“And that answer is _Emma_ ,” Nicky says, overlapping Joe’s, “And it’s _Persuasion_.”

Nicky turns over to face Joe. “It’s about the journey of self-awareness and the love of a thoughtful, reliable man.”

“It’s _about_ ‘I am half-agony, half hope’!”

“Are we going to come to blows about this?” Nicky asks, skimming his fingers under Joe’s t-shirt.

“Rules are rules—cut that out!” he exclaims, as Nicky starts to tickle him.

Their tussle ends with Joe on top, holding Nicky’s wrists against the bed and kissing him hard and deep. They both claim to have won.

* * *

“If you expect me to believe that, Joe, I have no choice but to assume you take me for a fool.”

It’s the Spring Fling gala fundraiser, and Joe and Booker are standing at a high table in the temporarily renovated atrium, glasses of sparkling cider in hand. “What? I finally tell you Nicky and I are dating, and you don’t believe me?”

“Oh, I believe you that you’re dating, and I’m sure if I broke into the administrative offices I’d find the HR paperwork to prove it. What I don’t believe is this bullshit timeline you’ve given me. It’s nearly the end of April, Joe. You sauntered into work with a hickey sometime in late February and you expect me to buy that someone who _wasn’t_ Nicky gave you that?”

“Your eyes must have deceived you. We had a no hickey rule, at least where necks were concer—shit.”

Booker’s eyes light up with glee as Joe realizes his mistake. “First of all, that hickey was on the back of your neck—”

“Betrayed—”

“—but that’s frankly a moot point given what you’ve just admitted. ‘Fess up.”

“I am swearing you to secrecy, because we did technically lie to HR by omission.”

“You have my solemn oath.”

“We’ve been together since January.”

“Since—”

“Since that snow day, yeah, you called it, your powers of observation are second to none, what more do you want from me?” Booker opens his mouth and Joe adds, “I am not answering any questions about socks.” Booker closes his mouth.

“Mind if we join?” Nile asks, winding her way through the tables with Nicky in her wake. They’re both holding plates piled high with food.

“They have baklava, Joe!” Nicky exclaims.

“You must have gotten there before Andy,” Joe says, “since there appears to have been some left.” Nicky sets the plate between them; it’s clear he got enough to share. “You see all this, Nile?” Joe gestures to the decorations, the well-dressed people. “This has nothing on the grad party we’re throwing you in two weeks.”

“Can we make it three?” Nile asks. “I’m going to need to sleep for a week between final papers and any partying.”

“Do grad students not go on post-finals benders anymore?” Booker asks. “How times have changed.”

“Here’s to the perpetually tired,” Joe offers, and all four of them raise their glasses.

“You’re going to be a credit to the profession, Nile,” Nicky says.

It’s incredible, Joe thinks, how extraordinary his life is. Here he is, surrounded by people he likes, at a job where his purpose is to help people, sharing food with a man he is in love with, whose hand is resting on Joe’s hip. He knows better than to map narrative patterns onto his life, because that’s not how life works, but in a moment this perfect, he can’t resist. He looks over at Nicky and imagines this scene written on a page in the middle of some tome the size of a Tolstoy novel, closer to the beginning than the end. Nicky smiles at him. They have time, so much of it, and they get to have it together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I had so much fun with this one, it allowed me to draw from some of my favorite memories of library work. There were so many believable work-related conflicts I could have written into this (budget negotiations! freedom to read controversies!) but instead I went...nah. I hope the fluff was satisfying on its own.
> 
> The full Mary Oliver poem from which the title is taken:
> 
> "I did think, let's go about this slowly.  
> This is important. This should take  
> some really deep thought. We should take  
> small thoughtful steps.
> 
> But, bless us, we didn't."


End file.
